Rain Claims the Night
by SolarRose29
Summary: When Steve begins to lose faith, Sam helps him find it. Sequel to Fire Burns the Wounded. Request by Littlemermade and Crazycupcakejee.


Whoa! This got a little out of control. Littlemermade and Crazycupcakejee both requested more to be added to my Fire Burns the Wounded fic (it's not necessary to read that one before this one. Although, if you are a Clint fan, that story is written from his pov ;) ). I was thinking this might be just a couple of pages longer than Fire Burns. Instead, it ended up being four times as long as that one! So that's why this is posted separately, instead of as an added chapter. So Littlemermade and Crazycupcakejee, this is for you two!

If you haven't read Fire Burns the Wounded, let me add a warning now that there is some blood mentioned. It's nothing too graphic, however.

* * *

"Cap," Sam coughed, crawling away from the dumpster the Winter Soldier had thrown him behind. "Cap!"

"Over here." Steve's voice sounded tense, all coiled springs and thin metal.

Absently brushing the gravel from his knees, Sam jogged out of the alley and rounded the corner of the brick apartment building. The sun gagged on plumes of smoke and Sam squinted against the struggling sunbeams and wisps of ash.

"Steve? Clint?" Sam called again, scanning the city block for signs of his friends.

He spied a figure kneeling in an intersection to the north and he hurried over. As he came closer, his heart dropped at the sight that became clearer. Steve's knees pressed into blood-soaked asphalt, next to Clint's unmoving form. Cursing repeatedly, Sam sped up, running the last few feet until he reached them. When he approached, Steve didn't even look up, all his focus directed toward staunching the ruby flow of blood.

"What happened?" Sam breathlessly questioned.

"He knifed him," Steve answered shortly, hands slipping off the hole in the archer's stomach.

"How bad?" Sam inquired, squatting down to inspect the wound.

For a moment, Steve didn't reply. He repositioned his palms over Clint's slippery abdomen. Finally, his eyes flicked up to Sam's face. "It's deep. And I-" he swallowed hard. "I don't think I can stop the bleeding."

"Shit, Steve," Sam commiserated, shrugging out of his jacket and pushing it onto Clint's middle.

As Sam's hands consequently shoved Steve's out of the way, Steve leaned back, brows furrowed.

"We could call someone," Sam suggested.

"Who? There's no one here," Steve pointed out. "The city's been evacuated."

"Someone from SHIELD?" Sam hesitantly recommended.

Steve snorted bitterly. "There's no one left. And even if there was, I doubt they would be on our side." He shook his head. "No. We're on our own for this one."

"Well, whatever it is we're going to do, we need to do it right now. He's bleeding out," Sam reminded urgently.

"I know," Steve agreed, solemn.

Grimacing, Sam readjusted his grip. "So what's the plan?"

Steve's eyes ran over the bodies of his friends, over the street and over his own uniform, calculating. Leaning forward, Sam transferred his weight onto Clint's stomach. When the captain's silence stretched into minutes, Sam yelled his name.

"I gotta stitch him," Steve muttered, as if he hadn't heard.

Sam's eyebrows rose. "You what?"

"I have to stitch him up," Steve restated, louder.

"Oh, hell no. That is not a good plan," Sam objected. "Not to mention, it's just plain unsanitary."

Gesturing abruptly at Clint, Steve argued, "We don't have much of a choice. Fighting infection is a hell of a lot better than being dead."

Sam pursed his lips. "Are you sure you can do it?"

"I've done it plenty of times," Steve assured. He paused before adding, "Just never on someone else."

"What?" Sam sputtered.

"I've patched myself up before but I've never had to do it for another person," Steve explained.

"Oh, perfect," Sam grunted sarcastically.

"I can do it," Steve aggressively asserted.

Convinced by Steve's fervor, Sam gave a brisk nod. "What do you need?"

"I'm going to need some kind of anesthetic," Steve told him, quickly trading his hands for Sam's on the jacket.

"Local or general?" Sam queried, standing.

"It doesn't matter. Anything to dull the pain." Steve expertly maneuvered the coat until the damp parts were switched out with fresh material.

"Got it," Sam acknowledged, turning to leave.

"And Sam?"

"Yeah?" He looked over his shoulder.

"Hurry."

If Sam had ever seen Captain America worried, it was at that moment. Rattled by the sight, Wilson sprinted down the block. His feet pounded past apartment buildings, jewelry stores, resale shops, boutiques and grocery stores.

"Come on, come on. Where are the pharmacies?" he grunted.

Finally, he spotted a drug store and, with a relieved smile, he stopped in front of it.

"Now that's what I'm talking about," he panted.

Stepping forward, he tried the door. The smile dropped off his face when the handle didn't budge.

"Really? There's a threat of a terrorist bombing, the government issues an evacuation and you stop to lock your door?" Sam raged at the unknown owner.

He reached for the holster on his belt, intending to shoot the handle and its lock off the door. It was then that he remembered the Winter Soldier had disarmed him during their brief brawl in that apartment complex. Which was five blocks away.

"So it's going to be one of those days, huh?" Sam muttered before giving the door a few experimental kicks. It didn't budge.

"Okay, you know what? Forget you. Barton needs anesthetic and he needs it now. So if you're not going to help me, I'll find something else!" Sam shouted at the impassive door before bolting down the street.

His momentum carried him past a liquor store with the front door cracked open and he backtracked. He wrinkled his nose at the sight of the neon advertising signs in the window. But his options were limited and he knew alcohol had the ability to numb nerve endings so he plunged headfirst into the store, snatching the first bottle within reach. In less than a minute, he was back on the street, cargo in hand, racing back to his friends. The sky above was thickening with clouds and Sam hoped the rain wouldn't fall until after Clint was whole.

As he returned, he saw Steve ripping open Clint's vest with his bare hands. Sam had seen some desperate field medicine during his tours in Afghanistan. But this was something new. Clint's stomach was cut in half and they had no surgical tools, no disinfectant, no anesthetic, and no medical training. When Sam drew close, Steve glanced sharply over his shoulder at him, eyes narrowing when he caught sight of the bottle in his hand.

"This is all I could find," Sam apologetically explained.

Steve pursed his lips. "It'll have to do."

Sam started to pass it over to the captain. Then he caught sight of Clint. Without the archer's uniform to hide the damage, the full extent of the wound was on display. The image was enough to turn even Sam's hardened stomach and he dropped the alcohol. It clattered onto the sidewalk and for a moment, Sam was sure the bottle had broken, in which case, his mission would have been in vain. But the glass was thicker than he anticipated and it only bounced twice before rolling a few inches away. Sam hurriedly scooped it up.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"'s alright, just give it to me." Steve held out an impatient hand.

Sam placed the bottle in Steve's waiting palm. With one hand, Steve used his fingers to twist off the lid, and with his other, he grabbed a portion of Clint's hair, tilting his head back.

"I need you to drink this," Steve insisted. "Open your mouth."

Looking at Clint's glazed blue eyes, Sam wasn't sure the marksman was even aware of Steve, much less able to pay attention to and obey him. A moment later, Steve came to the same conclusion.

"Support his head," he instructed Sam.

Obediently, Sam knelt, one knee on the concrete sidewalk, the other on the asphalt road. He barely had Clint's head in his hands before Steve let go. The captain moved his grip fluidly from the archer's hair to his cheeks, forcing Clint's jaws open, and Sam startled at the abrupt gesture. Clint twitched, making a little groan of distress. Sam bit his lip, glancing at Steve, whose eyes were hard as he tilted the bottle, draining it into Clint's mouth. The marksman's groan turned into a sputtering cough and Sam straightened a bit, raising himself to fix Steve with a firm stare.

"Careful," Sam reminded quietly.

Steve's eyebrows flicked together and his fingers relaxed a fraction. As soon as he did so, Clint twisted his head to the left and gagged on the lingering liquid in his throat. Sam watched with sympathy.

"How long do we wait?" he questioned, wondering when the numbing properties of the alcohol would take effect.

"We don't," Steve announced grimly. At Sam's shocked expression, he explained. "He doesn't have much time. If we wait any longer, it'll be too late." He gestured purposefully to the hole in Clint's abdomen.

"Damn." Although he didn't like it, Sam knew Steve was right.

Grunting in agreement, Steve ripped open one of the many pouches on his belt, ignoring the carefully fixed latch in favor of hastily tearing the top off. He dug around the small fabric case until he withdrew a needle and a line of thread.

"So that's what you keep in all those pouches," Sam observed.

"I should have had some kind of painkiller." Steve's fingers trembled slightly as he attempted to thread the needle. "I should have been prepared for something like this," he insisted.

"There was no way you could have known," Sam assured him, trying to help him see past the things that were out of his control so he could focus on the task in front of him.

Steve gave no reply, concentrated on as he was on the items in his fingers. Watching carefully, Sam noted the tremors running through the captain's digits and he prayed they would abate before Steve attempted to sew Clint back together.

"This is going to hurt," Steve mumbled, reluctance painted over his facial features.

Sam nodded once in agreement with a grimace twisting his mouth. When Steve leaned forward to whisper in Clint's ear, his voice was too quiet for Sam to make out the words. As he sat back up, Steve collected himself, his expression turning into a mask of stone. Sam took a deep breath, anticipating the long ordeal ahead of them. Without warning, Steve suddenly stabbed the needle through Clint's stomach. Sam jumped at the unexpected beginning, even as the body beneath his grip rose off the pavement as the archer jolted with the pain. An inhuman scream burst from Clint's mouth and Sam cringed.

"Hold him," Steve begged, knuckles pressing into flesh as he dragged the needle through soft tissue.

Sam hurried to obey, using a foot to press one of Clint's arms into the pavement while one hand grabbed the marksman's left wrist and held it down. A snarl transformed Clint's sweaty face and he writhed under Sam. Sam grimaced, doing his best to stifle Clint's struggles.

"I said hold him," Steve bit out.

Sam growled, "I'm trying." As Clint nearly dislodged him, he added, "I could use a little help here."

Eyes darkening to a steel color, Steve quickly changed positions until he was awkwardly kneeling with one knee on the street, his other leg trapping both of Clint's legs. Weakly, Clint rolled back and forth, futilely seeking escape. Sam tightened his grip. When Steve resumed his stitching, Clint went strangely still, every muscle straightening to an uncomfortable tightness. Sam watched his eyes blink blearily at the sky.

Thunder crawled through the evening air. Steve's hands were buried to the wrist in Clint's abdomen and Sam felt bile rise in the back of his throat. Without faltering, Steve guided the needle in one side of the wound, across the gap carved by the Winter Soldier's knife, and into the other side. He tugged the thread through skin, bringing the two halves of the cut closer and securing them.

Once, he glanced up to check on how Clint was faring. "Almost done. Just hang on, Barton."

Clint whimpered. Sam shifted his weight, absently noting the increasing humidity as the rain drew closer. The needle flashed scarlet, plunging up and down in blood, muscle and tissue. Brow furrowed, Steve finished. He snapped the thread, tossing away the excess before carefully tying off the remainder of the stitches. When the needle's passage through his stomach came to an end, Clint's eyes closed.

"Finished," Steve promised, sounding exhausted.

He grabbed Clint's shoulder, fingers slick with blood. At the touch, Clint went limp. Reflexes had Sam moving his hand to the archer's throat for a pulse. It was steady and Sam let out a sigh of relief. He leaned back and watched Steve's fingers tighten compulsively in the fabric of Clint's shirt. For a moment, the only sound was Steve's harsh breaths. Strands of smoke drifted on currents of slow moving breezes, causing Sam to squint.

A fat drop of rain splashed down onto his nose. Turning his face to the sky, he was dismayed to find the piled storm clouds crowding the city. Sam frowned and looked to Steve.

"Cap, we gotta move," he stated.

"I know," Steve agreed, tossing away the stained needle and loose thread.

With a disgruntled growl of thunder, the rain increased to a drizzle. Steve hunched protectively over Clint, shielding him from the spray.

"We need to go now," Sam elaborated.

"I know," Steve repeated wearily, scanning the street for the nearest shelter suitable for the prone archer.

Random strikes of lightning snapped through the gloom, illuminating the deserted section of the city. Beauty salons, jewelry stores and antique shops surrounded them, none of which were conducive to a post-surgery recovery room. Sam grimaced as the rain slid past his collar and down his back. Without warning, the sky above split open, dumping gallons of water on the unfortunate heroes. Steve immediately scooped Clint up in his arms and ducked under the nearest awning. Sam followed.

"Where are we going to hole up for the night?" Sam inquired, listening to the rain drumming on the canvas over their heads.

Steve's eyebrows knit as he glanced up and down the sidewalk. "There." He gave a small nod to indicate a thin building squeezed between a grocery store and a pawn shop.

"What is it?" Sam queried, straining to read the golden plaque fixed to the door.

Rather than answer, Steve shifted Clint, carefully tucking the archer against his chest, while being mindful of the fresh stitches in his stomach. He raced out of the meager cover the awning afforded them, sprinting across wet asphalt to the other side of the road. Sam hurried after him, analyzing the door as he got closer, trying to determine what means would be necessary to open it. The building itself looked a couple decades old and Sam soon saw the door hadn't been updated recently. Quickly, he took out his wallet, selecting a credit card. He placed the card in between the door and the frame. With the flick of his wrist, he sent the card sliding down, popping back the simple lock. Victory made him smile and he proudly turned the knob, swinging the door wide. Steve brushed past him and the smile vanished from Sam's face as he remembered their circumstances. Before he shut the door, he located the nearest light switch and flicked it on.

Pale light flooded the small room and Sam's eyebrows rose. One half of the room was clearly a reception area. A three ring binder was lying open on the thick wooden desk, behind which a swivel chair was turned to the full bookshelves that made up the wall. The other half of the room appeared to be the waiting area. Two leather armchairs flanked a couch of similar material. Steve stepped around the low table in front of the sofa and gently laid Clint down on the cushions.

"What is this place?" Sam questioned.

Steve shrugged, occupied with checking Clint's wound to make sure it hadn't been opened during their flight from the rain.

Wandering around the room, Sam happened upon a brochure that answered his question. "Dudley and Dudley, attorneys-at-law?" He held up the pamphlet skeptically.

"He needs a blanket," Steve muttered.

"I doubt you'll find one here." Sam tossed the brochure back on the desk.

Steve nodded briskly and removed his own jacket, spreading it over the sleeping agent. "This will have to do until I get back."

"Get back?" Sam parroted, rounding the desk and standing in front of Steve. "Where are you going?"

"To get some supplies," Steve answered.

"Not in this you're not," Sam objected with a pointed look out the window where lightning shone briefly through the downpour.

"I have to go," Steve declared, heading for the door.

"Cap," Sam started.

"Sam," Steve cut him off sharply.

Sam shut his mouth.

"Clint needs medicine," Steve insisted. "And a blanket, a real one. We're all going to need food eventually." He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his damp hair.

Even though Sam knew an argument could be made about how those things could wait, he didn't say a word.

"I can't stay here and do nothing," Steve finished, eyes desperate. "I just can't."

Perceptive to even the tiniest details, Sam noted the slight tremors running through Steve's body. Clint's brush with death and the nearly impossible surgery had rattled Steve and the stress was setting him on edge. Sam knew Steve wouldn't go far, wouldn't abandon Clint for long. The soldier just needed a way to use up the remaining effects of adrenaline, to calm his nerves. So Sam stepped to the side, allowing the captain access to the exit.

Steve paused with his hand on the doorknob. "I'll be back soon," he promised, turning to look over his shoulder. Then, he was gone.

"Yeah, I know you will," Sam told the empty room.

While thunder rolled, the wind picked up, throwing the raindrops into the window. They bounced hard against the glass. Sam was glad for the noise. The silence was unnerving. He moved over to one of the armchairs and sat down, idly selecting a magazine from the pile on the table.

"Do you read Better Homes and Gardens?" Sam asked the unmoving marksman. "Would you mind if I did?"

Clint gave no reply.

"Okay then." Sam settled in, counting the minutes until Steve returned.

The night deepened, going from cobalt blue to an inky black. After finishing Better Homes and Gardens, Sam moved on to the two month old edition of People. He hardly glanced at the ear-marked pages, instead focusing on the worsening weather. The sky relentlessly whipped the ground with sheets of piercing rain, while the thunder roared approval. Soon, Sam gave up all pretense of reading celebrity gossip. He got up and checked on Clint. Clint's breathing was even and although his face was creased in lines of distress, the pain wasn't strong enough to wake him from sleep. Sam was willing to count his blessings where he could find them. An analog clock on the wall showed him that it had been a little over a half hour since Steve had left. Despite how many times he told himself not to, Sam glanced at the clock several times over the next seven minutes. Just when he began to wonder if it was broken, because there was no way time could be moving so slowly, the door opened, bringing in a wave of water, the crack of thunder, and a drenched super soldier.

"Cap!" Sam exclaimed, both relieved his companion had returned and distressed to see how soaked Steve was.

Steve nudged the door shut with his boot, arms full of grocery bags. Sam helped him unload on the table. They pulled items from the plastic bags, laying down bottles of painkillers and antibiotics, a box of crackers, sliced ham, a few apples, bottles of water and a six pack of beer.

"Is this for me or you?" Sam teased, gesturing to the alcohol.

"Both. It wouldn't be fair if Clint was the only one to get a drink." Steve attempted a smile, though it looked more like a grimace.

"So," Sam changed the subject. "Let me guess. You actually went and paid for all this stuff."

"Of course," Steve assured. "We may save the earth on occasion but that doesn't give us the right to steal."

Sam shook his head fondly. "What else did I expect from Captain America?"

This time, a grin did manage to lift Steve's mouth. He emptied the last bag, pulling out a quilt.

"They had that at the grocery store?" Sam inquired.

"No. I found this in a department store," Steve explained, unfolding the blanket. "Actually, I had to go halfway across town to find most of this stuff." He arranged the quilt over Clint's body, expression turning somber.

"That explains why you look like you just went swimming," Sam observed. "You didn't happen to buy yourself some dry clothes, did you?"

Steve shook his head, sinking into one of the chairs. "I didn't need to. I'm not going to catch a cold."

"No," Sam conceded, taking the other armchair. "You're just going to be very uncomfortable."

"That's nothing new," Steve easily dismissed, reaching forward and snagging an apple. "Eat up, Wilson," he invited before taking a large bite out of the fruit.

Sam's stomach prompted him to put the argument on hold. He opened the package of crackers, topped them with the meat and washed it all down with a swallow of water. As he went to pick an apple, an open bottle of beer appeared in his vision. He looked up to find Steve offering it to him with a small smile twisting one edge of his mouth. Sam gladly accepted the beverage, taking a sip at the same time Steve had one from his own bottle. Sam helped himself to the fruit and some more crackers and meat before he noticed Steve hadn't even made a motion toward the food, other than the single apple he'd eaten.

"You can't blame me if you don't like the food. You picked it out," Sam joked, hoping to prompt Steve into action.

Steve smiled again but only tipped his beer up for another swig.

"Come on, Cap." Sam pushed the cracker box across the table to him.

"No thanks. I'm not hungry," Steve politely declined.

"You're always hungry," Sam retorted, placing the ham in front of Steve.

A wry eyebrow climbed Steve's forehead. "After getting an up close and personal look at what was inside Clint's stomach I'm not."

"Oh." Sam found his own appetite decreased at the mental image Steve's comment brought up in his mind.

"But feel free to eat without me." Steve returned the food to Sam's side of the table.

"I'm not hungry either," Sam confessed, shoving the snacks away.

"Sorry," Steve apologized, stricken at the thought that he'd ruined his friend's supper. "I shouldn't have brought it up."

"It's fine," Sam reassured him. "If we don't feel like eating this now, I'm sure we will later."

"Right," Steve consented, although he didn't look too convinced.

They nursed their beers without further conversation, the rain taking its place. Once Sam was done with his, Steve took the bottle from him.

"Get some sleep, Sam," he advised.

"What about you?" Sam inquired, finding a comfortable position in the chair.

Steve shrugged again. "Someone has to keep an eye on Clint."

"He's sleeping," Sam objected.

"He might wake up," Steve countered.

Recognizing the stubborn glint in Steve's eyes, Sam sighed. "Fine. But wake me up in an hour and I'll take a turn watching him while you get some shut eye. Deal?"

Steve nodded, wet hair plastered to his forehead. Satisfied, Sam drifted off.

It seemed to Sam that only a few minutes had passed before he was waking up. Once he had rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he looked to the clock on the wall. The numbers came into focus and he frowned.

"You can't count, Cap. I told you to wake me in one hour and it's been six," Sam reprimanded, though his voice trailed off when he glanced at Steve.

With his elbows resting on his knees, Steve was hunched forward, head supported on folded hands while he stared at Clint. His expression was one of dark brooding. Sam also noted the five bottles of beer that were lined on the table in front of the captain, empty.

"Thirsty?" Sam nodded at the bottles.

Finally, Steve pulled his eyes away from Clint long enough to run them over Sam. "Hey, how are you?" he questioned, as if he hadn't heard anything Sam had been saying for the past five minutes.

Deciding to simply go along with Steve's line of conversation, Sam answered, "I think my neck feels like I slept in a chair, but other than that, I'm good." He rubbed the stiff body part.

"Good. That's good," Steve mumbled absently, attention returning to Clint.

"How is he?" Sam inquired.

Steve blew out a breath. "He woke up once."

"And?" Sam pressed when Steve didn't continue.

"And he needed pain medication," Steve returned tightly.

Sam tried to find the silver lining. "But he's sleeping fine now, right?"

"He's almost drugged out of his mind," Steve retorted. "He doesn't really have a choice."

Holding up his hands to signal surrender, Sam backed away from the touchy subject. He glanced down at the table and was pleased to see empty wrappers where there once had been crackers. So Steve had eventually eaten something. That was a good sign. Feeling the need to stretch his stiff muscles, Sam rose and walked the length of the room, taking a moment to look out the window as he did.

"The rain stopped," he commented.

He wasn't expecting a response so he wasn't surprised when Steve didn't offer one. After passing behind the desk, Sam returned to his chair.

"So where do we go from here?" he queried.

"Back to D.C." Steve replied quietly.

"What?" Sam was incredulous. "That's where this whole thing started. You really think Barnes would head back there after everything that's happened?"

"No, I know he won't," Steve muttered, picking up an empty beer bottle and rolling it between his palms, as if keeping his hands busy would make it easier to press on with the conversation.

"Then why do you want to go back?" Sam inquired, baffled.

Steve shook his head. "Not me. You and Barton."

"What?" Sam cocked his head, confusion evident. "Why?"

"Do you really need to ask?" Steve gestured angrily to Clint's still form.

"Even if we did go, and that's a big if, what about you?" Sam crossed his arms.

Steve turned his head away, staring out the window. "I'll pick up his trail. Follow him if I can."

"Alone?" Sam accused.

"Damn straight," Steve asserted, slamming the bottle back onto the tabletop and rising swiftly to his feet.

"Oh, hell no," Sam returned, with equal fervor. "There is no way I'm going to let you track down a Russian assassin without backup."

"Try and stop me," Steve challenged, drawing himself up to his full height.

"What's with the sudden solo crap?" Sam abruptly questioned, craning his neck to pierce Steve with a searching stare. "You were more than willing to have mine and Barton's help before. Why ditch us now?"

"Because look what happened!" Steve exploded, throwing out an arm in Clint's direction. "You two tried to help and it nearly got Clint killed!"

Sam bristled. "Are you saying that just because we don't have any super serum in us, we can't keep up with the two of you? That Clint and I are dead weight, holding you back?"

"That isn't what I meant and you know it," Steve growled.

"Then what did you mean?" Sam barked. "Because I thought this whole mission was about the three of us, together, saving Barnes."

A wave of despair crashed over Steve and he deflated. "I don't know that he can be saved," he whispered.

Sam froze. After all the dead ends they had hit, all the tips that didn't pan out, the unreliable information, the set backs and roadblocks, wrong turns and circles they'd run, Steve had never lost hope. Even in the face of the most depressing circumstances, when their task had seemed impossible, Steve's faith had kept them going. He was determined to recover his friend and that kind of conviction had been contagious, motivating Sam and Clint to keep moving when all they wanted to do was lie down and rest, or at least catch their breath. But Steve's bright belief was more than enough for all three of them and it had become something Sam had come to rely on. And now that pillar was crumbling.

"You saw what he did to Clint," Steve continued dully, as if too numb to register pain, voice hardly breaking the early morning quiet. "That was an unprovoked, viscous attack." He bowed his head. "Maybe he is more animal than human."

Sam was on his feet in an instant. "No." He crossed the space separating him from Steve and gripped the captain's shoulder, hard. "No," he insisted forcefully. "Clint approached him, unarmed and non-threatening. All he tried to do was talk to him. If Barnes was truly acting on animal instincts, he wouldn't have attacked. Clint's presence wasn't a threat, only his words were."

"What are you saying?" Steve wearily inquired, refusing to look up. "That it's because Bucky's human that he tried to cut Clint in half?"

"Sort of, yeah," Sam consented, a humorless smile tugging up his lips. "If you have to put it that way." He sobered and further explained himself. "Yes, the punishment was worse than the crime. Talking to someone shouldn't equal disembowelment but you have to remember, Barnes' doesn't know how to express himself any other way."

"So he's a monster," Steve concluded miserably, body slumping in defeat.

"I didn't say that," Sam reminded gently. "It's more like violence is a dialect he's using. Think about it. You speak English because that's what your parents taught you to speak and everyone around you speaks it. Barnes was taught to use his fists to do the talking and that's what everyone around him did. It'll take him a while to readjust to using his words."

Steve perked up a little, enough to meet Sam's eyes.

"He's scared. Scared of you and scared of what he is." Sam maintained the eye contact. "You need to show him you're still his pal and that he isn't beyond the point of no return. Prove to him that you believe in him, in what he can be once he overcomes the things they programmed into him."

"How?" Steve questioned, gaze full of desperate hope.

"I don't know," Sam admitted.

Steve's face fell.

"Hey, I just gave you the pep talk of the century. You can't expect me to have all the answers too," Sam ribbed, sensing that a change of mood was needed.

A tiny smirk flitted over Steve's mouth and Sam counted that as a victory.

"Okay, now that we're all back on track, I'm going to ask again, what's your plan now?" Sam inquired.

Steve took a deep breath and moved over to the couch, standing over Clint. "I meant what I said before. Barton needs to be somewhere safe while he recovers."

"So we'll all stay in D.C. for a few weeks. It's not a bad place for a vacation," Sam casually commented, although the stern look in his eye told Steve that he wouldn't take no for an answer.

After rearranging the blanket more comfortably around the archer, Steve turned his attention back to Sam. "I can't do that."

"Steve, we just had this conversation," Sam warned.

"But what if I can't find him again," Steve protested, genuine fear in his voice. "It's hard enough keeping up with him now. It'll be damn near impossible if he gets a few weeks' head start."

"Look, I don't know if you've noticed, but you're Captain America. You're kind of the king at achieving the damn near impossible," Sam pointed out.

"I'm serious, Sam," Steve insisted.

"So am I," Sam returned. "The trail's gone cold before and we've always found it again."

Steve still looked doubtful.

"We could use the break," Sam hinted. "We'll get a little r&r, maybe go sight-seeing, and come back to this with fresh eyes and a new energy. How about it, Cap?"

A small smile lightened Steve's face. "I think I could agree to that."

"Good." Sam nodded, relieved that Steve had agreed to the much-needed and well-earned rest.

Outside, the rising sun dispelled the mist. Sunbeams crept through the glass window pane, bathing the three heroes in gold.


End file.
